I'm eating those fun-sized candy bars but not having much "fun" while doing it. I'm thinking of suing the manufacturer for false advertising.
 

Yes, a skinny cook can't be trusted, but a fat cook probably double-dipped his spoon in your soup.
 

What do you call it when a Sage has nothing to say?

PROOF THAT YOU'VE GONE DEAF
 

A friend of mine recently had her purse stolen, and like most people do, she blamed herself for leaving it unattended. But with so many fuckwads in society just waiting for an opportunity to prey on others, should we really blame ourselves for something like that? It's like we live in a world now where if we don't constantly hold on to things, someone apparently flips a switch that turns off the laws of gravity and anything not weighed down suddenly flies out into space (or into the hands of some bottom-dwelling fuckwads -- wads for short).

Being the supportive friend that I am, I told her to hang in there -- but maybe I should have said hang ON to something, since we just can't trust gravity anymore.
 

My favorite game is to turn the radio dial in the car to static and pretend I'm the last man on earth. Then I'll stumble out of my car at a country filling station and crawl toward the startled attendant, screaming, "Thank God I'm not the last one!"
 

Why can't things arrive when you "most" expect it?
 

When all is said and done, there's probably a Sage somewhere that will say it all over again -- and again and again.
 

What do you call a King without a mandate?

HETEROSEXUAL
 

TOP TEN EXPLANATIONS
FOR CROP CIRCLES

10)  Just God playing connect the dots again.
 
9)  Mother Earth wanted a couple of really nice tattoos.

8)  The Aliens are fucking with us: but crop circles aren't really complex, they're just an encrypted recipe for McDonald's secret sauce.
 
7)  They're handy coasters for the Jolly Green Giant's frosty beverages.
 
6)  Someone in heaven has a really bad cough.

5)  Jeb and Cooter are at it again with a rope and a couple wood planks.

4)  They're government funded dumb-people magnets.

3)  Bored alien children are using the earth as a giant Etch-A-Sketch.

2)  They're the Satanic rituals of devil-worshipping field mice.
 
1)  Some people have WAY too much time on their hands.
 

I read that if you use the following words -- bustin', feel, beat, loose, shake, meat, disco, heat, pump it up, joint, jumpin', humpin, feet, stompin' -- that almost any fool can instantly create a top 40 disco hit. Lets see what kind of fool am I. 

   Pump it up
   Feet are stompin'
   The joint is jumpin'
   You'll be humpin'

   Bustin loose
   Feel the beat
   Disco heat
   Shake your meat

Well, shake my booty! I can already envision myself adorned in a lime green polyester suit, while hitting the dance floor with such a dazzling flurry of hip gyrations that John Travolta would immediately rent a wheelchair. 

But enough already about my epileptic seizure.
 

How many times can you hit your funny bone before it's not funny anymore?
 

Isn't it curious that whenever you gain the confidence that you will never be led astray by anything ever again, some nice villagers stick you in a boiling pot with the local missionaries. That is the universal system of checks and balances at work. If you get a big head, the TAO finds some crazed, murderous savages to shrink it down to size and put it on a stick.
 

Always put your best foot forward -- unless you're standing on the edge of a cliff.
 

A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush -- if you flunked math class.
 

As I grow older, the dating scene just doesn't have much appeal anymore. So now days I favor threesomes -- me, and Ben & Jerry's.
 

In your uniqueness and individuality you best express essence. Immediately following with a good bowel movement, helps, too.
 

What do you call a warrior that uses condoms two-sizes too small?

HALF-COCKED
 

Look into a Warrior's eyes and you see dismembered body parts. It's horrific. You could try to run away, but that only angers them and you never want to anger a warrior. Angry warriors have this annoying tendency to break things, and you just hope it's not your neck.
 

Understanding astrology can be tricky. I'm a Libra and messy doesn't even begin to describe the calamitous cacophony of clutter that crowds my computer room in a continuous clash of creeping crud. On the other hand, my friend Shepherd is also a Libra, and if you visit his condo, you can't help but notice his obvious tidiness compulsion. I should probably explain.

With a heavy-duty arsenal of cleaning products -- defoamers, degreasers, descalers, and every other deranged word that begins with D and cleans stuff -- Shepherd is a devout practitioner of the old proverb, Cleanliness is Next to Godliness, which now puts an omnipotent, omniscient originator and ruler of the universe on his side. You can't get more cleaning power than that, folks!

In fact, after Shepherd has finished his lengthy sanitization process -- which can last from two days to the time it takes to travel several interstellar light years -- he has sent every known bacteria colony and microorganism back to the afterlife. At which point that portly, vertically challenged psychic from the movie Poltergeist arrives at his condo and seals the deal, proudly proclaiming: This House is Clean.

So here's my theory: perhaps the left side of the Libran scale is meant to be sloppy, and the right side is neurotically antiseptic. It's like the old tug-of-war between Oscar Madison and Felix Unger from the Odd Couple -- one side of the scale balances a bottle of Windex, and the other side balances a greasy pork sandwich that drips mustard on the couch. Thus, Libras apparently share a duality of both clean and filthy at the same time, or maybe if you're clean in this world, in a parallel Universe somewhere you're this horrid, foul matter that lives on a planet of sludge where raw sewage is the refreshment of choice and greasy pork sandwiches are considered the ultimate in gourmet food.

Either way, recalibrating the Libran scale might be the most hygienically appealing solution here, or you could just have a nine-thousand pound African Bull elephant crush the damn thing and end this discussion right now, since, in all honesty, that greasy pork sandwich is starting to look rather tasty.
 

Shepherd Hoodwin is a great Michael channel, but I've always thought he needed a cool slogan. You've all heard of Intel's ad - Intel Inside. What if Shepherd tattooed on his forehead, MICHAEL INSIDE?

It also makes me wonder what channels do if their essence decides to exit the incarnation early and a walk-in takes its place. Do they advertise to their customers: UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT?
 

The Michael teachings really do make sense. I have a venusian bodytype and it's characterized as lazy, indecisive, and passive. That's so true. With my venusian tendencies, the only way you'll ever track any movement from me is if you use time-lapse photography.
 

What do you call it when a Sage has nothing to say?

TIME TO REPLACE THE BATTERIES IN YOUR HEARING-AID AGAIN.
 

Along with mate agreements and the recently channeled ATE agreement, there are other interesting agreements that Michael students should learn about.

A personal favorite of mine is the SLEEP LATE agreement, which I've used throughout my lifetime in luxurious ways. Old sayings such as, "you're going to sleep your life away" or "you made your bed now lie in it" (usually delivered by nagging mothers), were beautiful affirmations to me that, to this day, I still take to heart. On the other hand, sayings like "lets sleep on it and talk about it in the morning" were always a disturbing paradox. While I was more than fine with the idea behind the sleeping part, the get-up-in-the-morning-to-talk-about-anything part was just cruel and unusual punishment. Sleeping is serious business, and anyone that doesn't let sleeping dogs lie, deserves a FIGURE EIGHT agreement on their nut-sack.

The HOME PLATE agreement is, of course, popular with hormonally deranged teenagers across the world, and more officially understood by mature adults as the agreement to "procreate." Although, if you are less mature and the before-mentioned teenagers are still involved, you could find yourself serving 5-to-10 years in a local state prison with a JAIL BAIT agreement. So keep Dirk Diggler in your pants, bud.

The BLIND DATE agreement is another common one, and a test of courage to all those intrepid souls who firmly believe that success on a blind date doesn't have to be a near death experience. Though, in my case, the illumination I generated from going into the light so many times might explain why my blind dates tended to scurry away from me like cockroaches on a kitchen floor.

The FIRST RATE agreement is probably typified best by Mary Poppins, who was perfect in every way -- that stuck-up bitch. And the I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU MADE ME FUCKING WAIT agreement has been championed by most of modern society, and is the bane of all who found themselves stuck in traffic behind a line of cars so long that there appeared to be Roman chariots sitting in the front row.

Lesser known agreements include the SECTION EIGHT agreement, the PIECES OF EIGHT agreement, the SALAD PLATE agreement, or if you just want to wash your hands of the whole thing, there's always the CLEAN SLATE agreement.

But between you and me, with all of these agreements to choose from, let's just agree to disagree.
 

Dave, stop it!

When I was a little kid, I used to think that was my first, middle, and last name.
 

A penny saved is a penny earned -- but it still takes a dollar to buy a McDouble.
 

I recently read that most Americans think about money more than sex. I suppose that makes sense. I often find myself thinking about sex, and then thinking about the $50 it's going to cost me.
 

The blind leading the blind -- probably reads Braille with someone else's hand.
 

MEMOIRS OF A SOCIETAL FAUX PAS
(Ok, it's about farting)

My pungent presence has been the spoiler at almost every social gathering. My unexpected, clamorous eruptions have led to the mortification of all modes of society. My miasmic intoxicated existence has allowed me to stretch my long,
gaseous fingers into every level of the commonwealth, deftly bridging the gap between poverty stricken peasants to the decadent elegance of the royal crown; yet, I am an orphan.

A soulless entity, I have literally become a household name, encompassing every culture with enduring phrases that clearly define my presence. Where would the populace be without delightful epithets such as: "Did you cut the cheese?", "Was that a barking spider?", or "Did you just float a hot air biscuit?" In my own special way, I have become a part of the cornerstone of our community; if only a mere fragment in the mortar. Yet, I have few friends.

So when you aim your alimentary canal to the aft side, and send me bubbling and sputtering into an indubitably pungent existence, I ask of you just one simple favor -- think of me fondly. When your surprised friends fall to their knees, gasping for breath as you excitedly exclaim to them, "Hey, did you get a whiff of that one?", do me a simple favor -- think of me with a knowing smile. For I am part of you and the collective whole of humanity. I am the gestalt of the entire spectrum of society, and I am truly...ubiquitous.